


Missing From Me

by andnowforyaya



Category: Journey into Mystery, Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Kid Fic, Kid Loki, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 10:11:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andnowforyaya/pseuds/andnowforyaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before Thor, Serrure was just some street kid in Paris who dealt a sneaky hand of cards. After, though, could he ever be the same again? Or, Serrure wakes up after <em>Everything Burns</em> and the world has shifted under his feet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Serrure blinked and was himself again, raven-haired and green-eyed and huddled under a blanket sharing Oli's warmth, the floorboards on the second and third floors of the old abandoned warehouse creaking as the other kids crept about, commiserating over ripped up pieces of stolen baguette and ripe cheese. Oli shifted closer to him in their corner of the second floor that they had sectioned off with a few stiff boxes, seeking heat, and murmured something low in half-sleep: "Stop hogging the blankets, would you?"

So Serrure closed his eyes and stopped squirming and let himself fall asleep again, the sounds of Paris when the lights have dimmed drifting over him, dreaming of floating cities and of rolling thunderstorms and of fire that burned hotter and longer than the sun.

.

It was hunger that woke him, pinching and constant, an ache that he had forgotten. He curled into himself, groaning, and a fist nudged him at his shoulder. When he opened his eyes it was to Oli, wide-eyed and gnawing on the crust of yesterday's baguette. He held out a chunk of the white, starchy bread in his olive-skinned hand and smirked. "Breakfast," he explained needlessly, tossing the bread onto Serrure's chest. "Ai, you look like shit."

Serrure felt like it, too. Felt like he had just slept for a dozen years under ice and had skipped over that stage of life when a person discovers himself by making mistakes and fixing them or choosing to ignore them. Felt like all the mistakes had been made for him, and then they had been left to rot. He could probably sleep for another dozen years, like one of those princesses in the fairy tales he'd heard about, waiting for something special and magical to wake him up. His sweater was thin and his t-shirt even thinner underneath that. The blanket was scratchy and smelled faintly sour. All around him, the other children were rising.

He could see now the familiar dilapidated mess of the warehouse, its broken windows with sharp wind whistling through the jagged edges, the spot on the third floor where the floorboards had rotted away so that sunlight streamed weakly through the slotted windows on the roof to the second floor. There were dozens of cardboard boxes strewn about, and even some metal sheets and bits that had been dragged to the building from all over Paris to create a mockery of a kitchen, with an old toaster and a microwave that crackled more often than it worked. There was a radio and an extension cord plugged into the wall, where one smart kid had figured out a way to reroute the crossing wires and bring a small drizzle of electricity to their floor, for free. He had to go up onto the roof quite often, adjusting and tweaking and fixing, but it was worth it to be able to have a warm bowl of soup every now and then.

Most of the kids here were runaways, Serrure remembered. Runaways who came and went back to the places they had run from when they grew tired of scrounging for food or fending off rats and pickpockets, back to their parents or their older siblings or their families - whatever shape they were in, it was almost certainly better than _this_ \- but for as long as Serrure could remember this was all he ever had, this warehouse and Oli and sometimes some stale bread. There was no family to run back to, no home. He had never been trying to escape from anything, really, until someone had given him a chance to.

The thought of Thor brought a sharp ache to his chest that traveled quickly to his eyes, and he scrubbed away the prickly feeling while forcing a yawn to mask it. He tore into the bread that Oli had thrown him gratefully, chewing through the toughness so that his friend could not understand the greeting that he gave him. It was something foul that involved Oli's mother and a spoon. In response, Oli snickered and threw another chunk of bread at him while Serrure sat up, stretching and blinking and not quite sure what had been a dream and what had been real.

"I thought for sure you were dead," was what Oli said next, a crinkle forming between his brows. "Where have you been?"

Serrure swallowed. "What do you mean?"

He had to tread cautiously. How would he explain his absence? Even Oli would condemn him to the gutters if he tried to share his fantastical story with him about Demi-gods and a city above some tiny bumpkin town in the Midwest in America, about Hel-wolves and handmaidens and devils.

Oli said, stooping low until he was sitting next to the boy on the floor, "You've been missing for two days, Serrure."

Serrure nearly laughed out loud but caught himself just as the laughter bubbled up in his throat. Still, Oli gave him a quizzical look at the smile that appeared on his pale face. "Only two days?" he asked him, the bread suddenly very heavy in his stomach. He offered Oli the rest of the chunk that he hadn't eaten, and Oli took it slowly, warily. How could all that time spent in Asgardia only account for two days of his life here? How was he even _here_ , again, in Paris?

"What do you mean, _only_? Lots of things can happen to a street kid like you in two days!" Serrure could sense a whack to the back of his head coming even before Oli lifted his hand. Sure enough, Oli checked him lightly as he ducked and then grinned sheepishly for it.

"It felt like much longer," Serrure mumbled, and his friend turned the hand that duffed him into a warm presence on Serrure's shoulder. "What happened, anyway?" Serrure hazarded, eyes slanting towards Oli.

His friend’s hazel eyes grew very wide. "You mean you don't remember?"

Serrure shook his head, but at once dizziness overcame him, and he nearly tipped over onto the other, so he stopped, welcoming the steadying presence of the hand on his shoulder. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine the hand belonging to someone else. "I just don't remember how I got back here," he lied, only it wasn't quite a lie. A half-truth.

"To be perfectly honest, I don't know how you got back here, either. It was the middle of the night last night and you were walking towards me and wouldn't answer me when I tried to speak to you, and then you just laid down and closed your eyes and went to sleep." He shrugged. Serrure imagined himself as sleepwalking, coming back after two days of mystery, tacit and withdrawn. It was a wonder that Oli didn't try harder to shake him from his spell. "I didn't want to push it. I figured you would want to talk today...or maybe never. I don't know." He paused then, gauging, and when Serrure gave no response he barreled on. "So are you all right? Do you want to tell me what happened? Did you lose that guy?"

At his words, Serrure blinked. Surely he couldn't mean...

But he could. He could remember as well as if it had happened yesterday, the chase that Thor had given him through the alleyways and underground of Paris, the slapping of his beat up sneakers as he pounded away on the pavement, the heart-stopping shock at being caught, at Thor appearing before him and telling him his dreams had reason, that he had purpose, that they were _family_. He sniffed around the feeling that welled up within him and sighed. Oli leaned close, apprehensive.

"That guy..." he began uncertainly, "I didn't really lose him. He caught me when I ran into the train station." He felt Oli's fingers dig into his shoulder and winced, tender all over. He felt like he was waking from a fever-dream, skin sensitive with goose flesh and yet overheated.

At his expression Oli let up on his fingers but still gripped him tight. "And then what happened?" his friend breathed, tense and protective.

And then Thor had washed him in magic and he had been reborn as Loki, only not, and they had returned to Asgardia and everything had happened. And now he was here again, in the same body but without the trickster god. But, how?

On the floor above them they heard the beginnings of a scuffle between a girl and a boy, and Serrure inevitably thought of Leah. He sighed. "And then he took me to his place. No, it wasn't like that, I promise," he said immediately, noting the dark look that crossed Oli's features. "He thought he would try to contact my parents. I told him I didn't have any, which is the truth. He didn't believe me and kept trying. At least I got a few meals out of it, right?"

His friend gave him a deeply suspicious look. "That's it? So then after two days...what? He just let you go?"

"No," Serrure said with difficulty, crafting the lie quickly. "He gave up."

The words felt heavy on his tongue. Sweet, idiotic Thor, who until the end professed his faith in his little brother, who would not know of the usurper that now was in his place. Suddenly it was too much, everything burned too bright with fever, his skin prickling in the cold air while his head broiled with fire. Loki was in Asgardia, now, and Thor trusted this form of him. The bread he had eaten grew rancid in his stomach, and he turned quickly from Oli, shoving him away and then crawling to the corner, where he vomited until he was spitting bile onto the floor, gasping and empty.

"There's something you're not telling me," Oli murmured, rubbing circles onto his back, as the gasping tipped over into crying, and Serrure wrapped both arms around his stomach and pressed his forehead to the floor away from his mess. He hiccuped, caught between a laugh and a sob, and wished it were so simple as telling a story.

.

The days passed like a fine mist had shrouded Serrure's being. Maybe it was the fever that clung to his skin and bones, rendering him useless as a newborn colt for the first few days of his return. Oli gave him bread and orange wedges and entreated him to go to the hospital - he could be cared for and then slip out before they asked for identification or parents or payment - but Serrure refused. He could ride out this wave. After that Oli made him drink half of a bottle of cold medicine, and he spent the night squinting at the stars and seeing their rainbow halos. His friend was warm and his shirt was very red. Sleep found him, somehow, and when he awoke again, the fever-haze was over.

Once he found his footing, he moved, directionless. He performed card tricks and practiced his sleight of hand, he flirted impishly with the lady that ran the fruit stand near the Forum des Halles for some free apples, and he filched a scarf from the back of some tourist’s chair outside of a trendy cafe, wrapping the black material twice around his neck and tucking it into his zipped up fading yellow sweater. On one end were the initials _LC_ embroidered in fine gold thread, and it smelled faintly of cedar.

Sometimes he ran with Oli. There was a new girl, too, who was quick on her feet and light with her fingers, who bartered her fur earmuffs for a warm pot of stew and freshly baked bread that she shared with a select few. She called herself Michelle and spoke with a posh accent. No doubt she would be leaving, soon, so Serrure spent what time with her that he could, relishing in her handouts and quick to offer her a charming smile and flattery.

The warehouse grew colder with the coming of winter, and when it was too cold Michelle left, went home to her parents and to warmth, not really cut out for this kind of life and fussing over the dry skin of her knuckles. Serrure lifted a leather jacket he quite liked from some teenager who abandoned it briefly for a cigarette, and pulled his yellow hood up, and gritted his teeth against the icy air.

Zed had been a street kid once, too. Now he was a barista in some quaint cafe in the second arrondissement who made just enough money for rent in a shambling apartment he shared with two other roommates. Oli knew him, so that was how Serrure knew him.

“Oi!” Zed called from down the street, bogged down by groceries and struggling to wave a hand. Serrure ignored him, only had eyes for this little tourist girl and her mother, who smiled at him with knowing pity. The little girl before him squealed at his latest trick - making the card she had drawn from his deck appear in his back pocket - and her mother took her hand to steer her away. He wasn’t asking for money, or anything, didn’t even have a hat out to collect change, so he flashed the little girl a sweet grin and she squealed some more, only to be forcefully dragged away into the bustling crowd. Serrure sighed and folded his cards neatly into a pile in one hand. By then Zed had reached him.

Zed’s name was not really Zed; it was Zacariah. He had a plain face accented by piercings in one eyebrow and in both ears, and had shaved one side of his auburn hair close to his scalp. The other side was short but tousled, held up by product. He looked constantly windswept. As though to accentuate that look, he wore layer upon layer of scarf, sweater, and coat, puffed up to twice his usual size. His breath came out in white clouds, but he was smiling as he tried to gather his two grocery bags into his arms. “It’s you!” he said by way of greeting.

Serrure shrugged, quirked his lips. “And it’s you.”

“Listen,” Zed babbled, “I know it’s been a while but we’re having a little thing tonight. You and Oli should come by. Sleep over. Take a warm shower. There will be lots of food.” He lifted the bags in his arms as an explanation. “I know it sucks that you can’t just stay indefinitely but my roommates would not be up for that at all.”

Serrure shrunk into his jacket, wary. A warm place to sleep tonight sounded splendid, sure, but he was no stranger to Zed’s idea of a ‘little thing.’ Oli had dragged him to a few, before, insistent, and they had always left the next mornings woozy and a little banged up, uncertain about what had really happened the night before but quite certain that they would never do it again. But they did, drugs still in their systems. A few months ago (before Asgardia and all of that, anyway), he and Oli had made a pact never to succumb to a Zed party ever again.

Here he was, though, considering it, as the wind blew and its cold reach sliced between the layers of his clothing. “We’ll see,” he said noncommittally, but by Zed’s grin he knew that the other boy knew that they would see each other again in a few hours.

The older reached low into one bag of groceries and drew out a small bag of cherries, their juices running red along the bottom of the plastic container. “Here,” he offered, presenting Serrure with the fruit. “To hold you over until then. Jesus, Serrure, you look like you’re about to pass out.”

Serrure took the bag, frowning. “I do not,” he protested, peering into the plastic and plucking out a few ruby cherries. He popped them into his mouth one by one, rolling the pits around with his tongue before spitting those out onto the sidewalk. Zed smirked.

“So, see you later, then.” He waved again, playing at carefree, and carried away his groceries down the sidewalk. Serrure watched him weave and bob between the other pedestrians as he ran his tongue over his teeth. The cherries had been sweet, but gritty.

.


	2. Chapter 2

Oli and Serrure deliberated for all of two minutes in the warehouse, until a howling wind shrieked between the broken glass of the windows and brought with it a fresh wave of winter and a light dusting of snow. One of the kids had brought up a metal garbage bin and lit a weak fire inside of it, but its heat could only reach so far, and the more resourceful of the runaways had scrounged up money for a room at a hostel, or found a way underground.

Serrure turned up the collar of his stolen leather jacket against the wind and brought the hood of his sweater lower over his eyes as they walked the sidewalk to Zed’s place. Snow crunched underfoot, turning quickly into murky puddles as they left their footsteps, and Oli reasoned aloud for the both of them the entire way.

“We’ll stay away from any drinks, okay? Just eat the food. Only the food, and we won’t wake up tomorrow feeling like we’ve been run over by trucks.” He was nodding to himself as he spoke, though that could have been a tactic he was using to duck his face against the cold. Serrure had lent him his scarf to wear under a puffy brown jacket, so his words were muffled. “I bet he’ll make his cherry _clafoutis_ that he makes all the time, huh? Man, that stuff is delicious. Maybe I’ll just stick the whole pan down my shirt and make off with it!”

He elbowed Serrure good-naturedly, who flinched despite the layers, laughing. Serrure said, “Yeah, you say that now, but you never say no when he offers you a drink! You remember, last time you --”

And that was all he could say before Oli leapt onto him, growling, and Serrure yipped and cackled as they attempted to wrestle each other into the snow. It evolved into a snow-flinging battle as they ran to Zed’s. Pedestrians gave them a wide birth, and their voices carried.

Serrure remembered, suddenly, Loki and Leah’s flight to London to investigate godly disturbances surfacing there, and how Leah could have transported them there with a spell and a flick of her fingers, but Loki had wanted to travel by plane, do it the mortal way, and Leah had grumbled but allowed it. She had gripped the armrests the entire flight, sullen and spooked, while Loki gasped out of the window, or played with his seatbelt, or asked for complimentary soda after soda. Unfortunately there was no one on board who could whip him up a nice _ice cream_ soda, and when he had whispered that to Leah, she had glared daggers at him.

And then they had landed, and Loki had been beside himself, eager to meet the Queen, like she would deign to walk the common streets by the airport. He had bought Leah an “I Love London” shirt, too, and had even tried to force it over her head, but the long hours in the air in a metal human contraption had done nothing for her mental state and she had flung the shirt back at him (at the bewilderment of the sales clerk), and Loki had run, laughing, while Leah had chased him through the corridors to the arrivals terminal.

They reached Zed’s apartment building and crossed the threshold into warmth and Serrure’s mind went thankfully blank. What was the use of those memories, anyway? The more time that passed, the more they seemed like the dreams that had plagued him for so many years. Oli had said he was missing for two days, but he had lived as Loki for _months_. The newspapers confirmed it, though, so there was no room to argue. It was as if when he had woken up that morning curled up next to his friend, the world had reset.

Perhaps it really had been all a dream.

They climbed the stairs, still throwing the occasional fist out to the other in the hopes of tripping them, but after five flights they began to tire, and focused instead on breathing regularly. The building was old and had no working elevator, and the paint along the walls was peeling from age and moisture. Everything creaked, especially when the wind blew.

On the ninth floor, they finally both stood hunched nearly double in front of apartment 9G, gasping and hearts fluttering, the sounds of laughter and shouting and pop music muffled through the door. Oli knocked once and the door immediately swung open, a cheerful looking young woman - young enough to be a stylish university student, certainly - beaming at them from the other side. The sounds of the party flowed out into the hallway, the laughter more lively, the music more danceable. They both peaked in around her form and saw two men in the tiny kitchen with glass bottles in hand, but everyone else must have been hidden beyond the wall of the railroad-style apartment.

“What can I do for you two cuties?” said the woman, long blond hair twisted into a loose fishtail braid. She was wearing a little dark dress and boots and Serrure was cold just _looking_ at her, it wasn’t fair, and he was practically salivating at the warmth that escaped from inside the apartment. It smelled like baking butter and melting sugar.

He fixed his eyes on her and grinned charmingly. “We’re here for Zed.”

She opened the door wider and ushered them in, closing it behind them. “Oh, you’re Zed’s friends? Of course, come in, come in! You should have said, I mean, I thought you were _kids_.”

“Well, I _am_ only --” Serrure began, only for Oli to interrupt him.

“We’re young, but we’re old enough to be here.” He glanced at her with an eyebrow raised, and she tittered. “I’m Oliver, by the way.”

Serrure rolled his eyes as they exchanged introductions, pushing his hood back. He wasn’t really here to make friends. He was here to eat his fill, to take advantage of heat and hot water, and to sleep. So, for that matter, was Oli.

He watched Oli continue to flirt, oozing charm though he was at least a head shorter than the woman who had answered the door - Jo, she wanted to be called - and then he walked out of the tiny kitchen and into the equally tiny living room. It was barely large enough to fit the couch that lined one of its walls, and with half a dozen or so people taking up space Serrure quickly felt stifled and zeroed in on his purpose. There was a table of finger foods set up at the far end of the couch, and he squeezed past a few dancing bodies to get there, the music washing and pulsing over him.

There was no cherry _clafoutis_ on the table, and Serrure thought back on the sweet cherries that Zed had left with him earlier this afternoon. He grinned to himself, feeling like Volstagg must have felt in countless feasts hosted in Asgard. Volstagg had been perhaps the first of them to throw in his lot with Loki. To take a chance. He appreciated the man for both his gut and his honor.

There had been once, when Volstagg had been otherwise occupied in some adult matter, that Loki had been first invited into his cozy home by one of the children and then welcomed by Gunnhilde, Volstagg’s wife. As he had sat near the hearth and fire with the children gathered around him while he weaved them a story with dramatic flare, Gunnhilde had brought them all a basket of fresh, pillowy-warm rolls and milk sweetened with honey. When he had left, hours later, the mother had only said, “You must be sure to come by again, child. You tell a good story.”

It had been nice - an adult who in no way referenced who Loki _had_ been. Perhaps she had seen only a stick-limbed boy who could capture her children’s attention for some time, lessening her burden, Serrure mused.

He took a paper plate from the stack at one end of the table and began to fill it with food. Green grapes and cheese and slices of red apple, a hunk of bread and some carrot sticks and tomatoes. He saw the remains of a small cake. There were little caramels in their wrappers littered atop the surface of the table, and he grabbed a handful of those and stuffed them into the pocket of his sweater under his jacket.

Oli was still near the door, talking to the woman and her friends. He sighed and brought himself over to the couch, balancing the plate of food on one of the couch’s arms while shrugging off his leather jacket. Once he was comfortably cross-legged on the cushions, he began to pick at his food with careful fingers. Another boy came and sat heavily down onto the other end of the couch, and Serrure glared at the intrusion.

The boy glanced over - he reminded Serrure of someone he couldn’t quite pinpoint - light hair and a neatly trimmed moustache - and smiled, sloppy and inebriated. He had a bottle dangling between his fingers. “Who are you?” he asked, spreading himself out along the couch. His accent was strange and forced. One of his arms nearly brushed over Serrure’s shoulder. “Who’s letting minors in? Are you someone’s little brother?”

“I’m Loki,” Serrure said before he could stop himself, thinking of being someone’s little brother. His eyes widened when he realized what he had said. “I mean, Luc. I’m Luc.”

“Luc, huh?” the other guy said, nodding to himself. “You look like a Luc. I bet it’s short for something. I’m Finn. So, who are you here with?” He began to scan the crowd.

“No one,” Serrure admitted. “I mean, I’m here with Oli, that guy up there.” He pointed him out and Finn’s eyes followed. “But I’m not anyone’s little brother.”

A beat passed. Serrure tucked in to his grapes.

“What’s wrong?” Finn asked, startling the younger boy.

“What do you mean?”

“You just got this very depressed look on your face. Did you _used_ to have a big brother?”

And this was not a conversation that Serrure wanted to have with some stranger on the couch, or _ever_ , so he glared and jabbed, “Your accent - you are not from around here.”

That brought Finn up short, and he sat up straighter for a moment, blinking, before the grin crept back onto his face and he laughed. “Yeah, yeah, you’re right. I’m American. I guess I’m a tourist, as if a name like _Finn_ didn’t give it away.”

In lilting English, Serrure asked, “Where are you from?” and Finn laughed again, pleased.

“Midwest,” he took a gulp of his beer. “Wichita, baby.”

Serrure had to remember to breathe. The name Wichita was familiar to him. What state had held this city? He remembered looking up surrounding cities on his Starkphone while Loki had been in Broxton, just in case he needed to relocate for a bit. Then, the answer came to him. “Kansas,” he announced, proudly.

“Dude, all right!” and he held out a hand for Serrure to high-five, which he did so, both of them grinning now. “Most of the people I’ve talked to have no idea what the Midwest is at all. I’m surprised you know, little man.” He said this all in rapid English, of which Serrure caught every other word. He must have looked confused, brows furrowed, because Finn said in French, “Sorry. Just saying you’re a smart little guy.”

Serrure told him of course he was, which set Finn off laughing again. “Luc, you’re cool, man, you’re cool.”

Serrure shifted guiltily under the attention. “Actually, my name is Serrure,” he told him hesitantly.

“Okay, okay,” Finn said, still jovial. “That’s cool. Playing it safe with strangers, right? I’m probably going to slip up and call you Luc, though, especially since that’s easier for me to pronounce.”

He told him he didn’t mind. Luc was neither Serrure nor Loki. Luc was just a boy at a party.

Finn was a college student abroad for the semester. He liked Paris but really missed his hometown, and would be leaving in a few weeks once term was over. He studied with Jen who was roommates with Jo who knew Zed from the coffee shop. Jen bailed at the last minute, so he was kind of here alone, too. "And now I'm talking to a little kid," he ended wryly, in English.

"I'm a very mature little kid," Serrure told him in his own accented English. "I've done a lot of things. Seen a lot of sights. I even saved the world, once."

"Did you, now?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"You're a little weird, aren't you?" Finn asked him, sitting back again against the cushions.

"And you're a little offensive," Serrure huffed, miffed. He took an aggressive bite of one of his carrot sticks.

"Hey! It's not that - Look, everything's a little bit weird to me, still. American in Paris, right?" He pointed to himself, as though that would illuminate anything. "It's like, I'm not trying to go around offending all the little kids of Paris, so don't take it personally."

"I am not taking it personally."

Finn exhaled quickly, chuckling. He swished around whatever was left in his bottle and then downed the rest. "I love it here, but I can't wait to get home. You know what I miss the most?" He eyed Serrure with a sideways glance, seeing that he still had the boy's attention. "The food. The greasy, in-your-face diner food. Man, I would kill for some pancakes and homefries and bacon."

Serrure knew exactly what he was talking about, and he stared, rapt, as Finn told him about his favorite diner in his hometown. His plate was empty now, but he could imagine it filled with stacked waffles and sweet syrup and melting butter. Could smell the onions and thick slices of ham frying in oil. Could hear the sizzle of the flat grill behind the bar-counter, the grinding of blenders as the waiters and waitresses mixed up drinks for their patrons. He licked his lips, and Finn asked, "You ever been?"

Loki and Leah had gone to the diner in Broxton regularly. She had loved the milkshakes, and he had loved sharing them with her. What he liked best about the diner, though, was that they would go and eat and the other people in the building might look at them a little funny but that was only because they looked at _all_ Asgardians a little funny, and anyways they were paying customers and quite charming besides, so the waitresses and owner never gave them any trouble. He wondered how Leah was faring, in the ancient past. Had she hated Loki with all her heart, in the end?

"To a diner?" Serrure asked impishly. "Or to the Midwest?"

Finn shrugged. "Both, I guess."

But before he could answer, Jo appeared with Oli in tow, a flush to her cheeks suggesting that she had had a few more drinks to fill her stomach. She collapsed onto the arm of the couch on Finn's side and leaned over him affectionately. They whispered to each other, and then Jo dragged him off to another room. Oli sat where Finn had left a dent in the cushion, a smug and cool expression fixed on his face.

He knew that look. "What have you done?" Serrure asked, dreading the answer.

His friend pulled out a wallet from his sleeve, slim and masculine. He flipped it open and read out loud, "Finn Newport. Wichita, Kansas. Look, he has cash in here!"

"When did you manage to swipe that?"

"As he was leaving, of course." Oli pulled out a few paper bills and pocketed them. "Look, I left some money and we'll just leave it on the floor here. No one will know."

Slowly, the party died down. Finn left, came back for his wallet, and then left again with Jo. Other people went home. Someone broke a bottle on the way out and Serrure helped to clean it up, because everyone else was stumbling and he didn't want an accident and blood to be spilled, though he did nick his finger on a piece of glass. Oli wrapped a bandaid around it, and Zed, appearing for the first time in front of the boys, blew it a kiss.

He let them use his shower, and then he let them sleep in his bed, taking the couch for himself. His roommates really don't care, he assured them. Plus some of his friends were sleeping in the living room, anyway.

The bed was very warm, and the covers soft. Oli didn't care how they slept, not like some others boys might, so they settled around each other comfortably and drifted, and Serrure wondered if Finn had ever visited Broxton.

.

_The diner is full. Finn sits across from him, though there are people closing in on them from both sides of the vinyl-seated booth as they share a strawberry milkshake on the table. He had wanted cherry, but they had just run out._

_Finn says, “You like it here, don’t you?” and sips the drink down to its dregs. Serrure frowns, petulant, and takes the drink from him. There is a strawberry at the bottom of the glass. He plucks it out with his fingers and bites into it, juices dribbling red down his chin._

_“It’s too bad,” Finn says. “Too bad you like it here so much.”_

_It shifts. The others in the diner are murmuring and then their voices are rising, and then they are screaming and pushing in and out and away. Serrure gets jostled to the floor. He crawls under the table to hide. Leah is there, waiting._

_“You’ve got something on your chin,” she tells him, and uses her thumb to swipe it away. It’s the juice from the strawberry. It’s blood._

_She licks her thumb, and the diner catches on fire. Leah sighs and looks out at the flames from underneath their table. “Now, look what you’ve done,” she says, and begins to crawl out from under it. Serrure grasps at the material of her dress. She looks back, glaring._

_“Wait,” he pleads. “Don’t go.”_

_“I have to clean up your mess,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Otherwise everything will burn.” The material of her dress dissolves between his fingers, and she leaves._

_It shifts. The tiles underneath him are sheets and the fire is red curtains. Thor’s hand in his hand, burns ugly and glistening. Serrure wraps each finger in gauze but it never stays, or he never has enough gauze. Thor hisses each time. It hurts. There is pain._

_“You can’t punch fire, Thor,” he tells him, as fat tears plop onto Thor’s burns._

_“You tell a good story,” Thor rumbles back, only it is not Thor, it is Gunnhilde, and Gunnhilde takes her clumsily-wrapped fingers and encircles them around Serrure’s neck, and she squeezes, and she smells of freshly baked bread and milk and honey. She squeezes and squeezes, until Serrure is clawing at her fingers, desperate for air. She opens her mouth impossibly wide, and it is filled with razor-sharp teeth. Oh, gods, she’s going to_ eat _him, she’s going to consume him and --_

_It shifts. “Teller!” Serrure rasps through the fingers still pressing. “I know it’s you!”_

_Gunnhilde is gone, replaced by a womanly form with glowing blue eyes. Its whole being seems to be made of light, tendrils escaping and burning whatever they touch. The Teller keeps pressure on Serrure’s throat, and through the light he thinks he sees it grin. “What do you call a boy with no past?” the Teller demands. “Who is he?” It burns bright, but something is different about this Teller. No one had summoned it, this time; it had appeared to Serrure of its own volition. “What is he?” it whispers in his ear._

_The Teller shakes him, and he screams._

His eyes opened to half-light. It was Oli shaking him, and not the Teller. The dream clung to him when he awoke, and he fought as hard as he could, grunting, pushing at the phantom fingers around his neck. He cried out in frustration when the fingers would not let up and gritted his teeth when his wrists were bound by strong hands. He was breathing heavily, the Teller was still here, he had to _escape_ \- and then Oli's voice broke through the barrier, and he was saying, "Hey, Serrure. It's just me. It's just me; you were dreaming."

His wrists were freed. He covered his face with his hands, a blush creeping up his neck.

"Some dream you were having," Oli told him lightly, adding a chuckle at the end that sounded forced, but he didn't ask him about it, and for that Serrure was grateful. Oli slipped back into sleep soon after, and only with his friend's rhythmic breathing filling the room did Serrure began to doze off again, the dream breaking into shards and disappearing as the sun began to creep over the horizon.

.


	3. Chapter 3

Zed let them stay another night, brought back leftover croissants and biscuits from the coffee shop when his shift was over. The next morning his roommates began to give both Oli and Serrure dirty looks, despite their attempts at being first invisible and then helpful.

"Come back in a week, okay?" Zed was saying as he turned them out. "My roommates will be over it by then." They said they would. On the way down the stairs they were silent, building creaking all around them, and then they were out the door, breaths misting.

When they were a safe distance away, Serrure stopped Oli with a hand on his elbow, and then he showed him what he had hidden under his jacket, grinning.

It was a tablet, almost new, shiny and black like a jewel.

Oli gasped. "Oh, man! How'd you lift that? They're going to think it was us!" Instinctively they both ducked into the nearest alley, and huddled close to shield the stolen object.

"No, they won't. It's been missing since the party, you know? Could have been anyone," Serrure assured him. "How much do you think we could get for it, huh?"

Oli whistled through his teeth. "What model is it? Doesn't look like a Stark."

Serrure turned the gadget over in his hands to examine the brand. It wasn't a Stark model; it was something Japanese. "I think it's Toshiba," he read aloud. "Still pretty good."

"Does it even work, though?" Oli pressed. He tried taking the tablet to see for himself but Serrure jerked it out of his reach. "Hey!"

"Of course it works. I have the charger, too. Here, let's turn it on." He pressed a button on its side, and the screen flashed quickly before the start up sequence took over the display. "See?" he said, self-satisfied. When it had finished loading the tablet began to buzz with delayed notifications, and then a video screen appeared in the center, the signal buffering.

Serrure and Oli watched as a news program clip began to play. There was an announcement of a new school for mutants being opened after much controversy in the States, and the weather, and then shaky amateur camera-work of a skirmish in New York City between a young woman and a boy. Perhaps ordinary, except for that the young woman was _flying_ and throwing punches that snapped street signs in half. They looked to be in a busy area of the city, with pedestrians stopping to look and point as the girl - the newscaster called her Miss America - attempted to throw the boy through a car.

"We are confirming the identity of the boy in this super-powered throw-down, but as of yet he is a mystery," the newscaster said in English. "It seems that New York City has some new heroes in town."

The fight continued in a small window behind the newscaster, and Serrure gulped when he saw the boy using magic that glowed blue around its edges.

It was him. The green tunic and black leggings and that circlet around his head.

Loki.

He watched. Miss America threw a mighty punch that raised concrete, Loki skidding through it and rolling to a stop. Loki held up his hands as the girl approached him. They exchanged some words, and then America stomped off, away from the camera. Loki watched her go and then, as though realizing for the first time the audience they had gathered, turned to look directly at the camera that had been filming them.

Serrure’s heart leaped to his throat.

Loki gave a jaunty wave and then disappeared in a haze of smoke.

"Was this just a teenage super-powered back-alley fight, or was there something more involved? Let's turn this over to you, Lisa..."

Serrure exited the screen with a press of his finger. He looked on, stunned, singularly focused on what he had just seen.

Oli poked him. "That was cool! What just happened? That was all in English. Did you get that? Who were those new superheroes?" he babbled excitedly. "They looked like teenagers!"

His mind buzzed with this new information. Loki was there. No longer in Asgardia, but in New York City. Why? Had he fled Asgardia because Thor suspected? Why would he give up his _own_ chance for redemption, now that he had seen it could be done?

"Hello?" Oli called beside him. "Earth to Serrure. Translation, please?"

"The girl is Miss America," he told his friend, forcing a smile. "They don't know who the boy is, or if they're both superheroes."

"What are you talking about?" Oli argued, impassioned. "Of course they're superheroes! They didn't kill each other at the end. They must be really on the same side. Just a little quarrel, is all that happened."

"I wouldn't be too sure," Serrure hedged.

"Ha, shows what you know. You know that boy? He looked a lot like you, didn't he?"

There was half a moment in which Serrure felt frozen, but then he laughed, and Oli laughed along with him. "Yeah, right! My long-lost superhero twin," he joked.

"You never know!" Oli pressed, half-serious and half-playing. "You could have a twin. Aren't you left-handed? And it's not like you'd remember, or anything."

But that was a step too far, and Oli caught himself, turning silent. "Sorry, man."

He didn't like the guilt that passed over his friend's features, so he said, "No, you're right. If I have a long-lost twin with superpowers, do you think I could have superpowers, too?" with a quirked eyebrow. He smirked.

Oli shoved him playfully. "You? Superpowers? Fat chance."

They pawned the tablet for a couple hundred and spent the cash on a room at a youth hostel for a week, and Serrure tried to push the image of Loki battling Miss America from his mind. That was not his world anymore. He was just a kid in Paris trying to keep warm and fill his belly and have fun with his friends. There were no barters to be made in Hel, no demons to befriend, and no gods to offend. It didn't matter that he remembered the way Asgardia smelled, different from cities on the surface, or that he knew how to enter Asgardia's library from three secret passages. That sometimes he would catch a flash of red in the streets and turn to see, looking for Thor and hoping.

It didn’t matter. He would never set foot on that floating rock ever again.

.


	4. Chapter 4

It wasn’t a new routine. They’ve worked this particular set-up so many times before that it was a wonder no one else has caught on, but Serrure supposed that was part of the charm in working the streets of Les Halles, where the tourists were plenty, so familiar faces were a rarity. He stood behind a little wooden stool, and shuffled his well-loved pack of cards in both hands. It was colder now, so he knew his glove-less fingers would be aching by the time this was over, and he groaned at the thought.

Oli lingered half a block away, shuffling snow with his shoes and looking the part of a teenager waiting for his parents to be done with their holiday shopping. A group of tourists was heading their way, likely a young family and each carrying at least two shopping bags, and Serrure flashed Oli a quick grin as his friend examined each of them briefly as they shuffled past him. Oli put both hands in his pockets and whistled, so Serrure knew they were good to go.

There was a little boy in the group, no older than five, who was rubbing at his eyes and yawning. The lady next to him - Serrure assumed she was his mother - kept having to grasp his wrist and pull gently to help him keep up. Serrure allowed himself a grin. He shuffled the cards quickly, then let them fall from one hand to another, controlled. He cut the deck in two and snatched up a card, a Joker, and flicked his wrist. The card flew like an arrow and embedded itself in the snow, right before the boy’s feet.

“Excuse me!” he called in his most sincere voice, in English. “I’m so sorry; it slipped.”

The boy bent over and picked it up. He looked up at his mother, who gestured him on. Serrure held out his hand as the boy placed the card into his palm. “Thank you so much.” He grinned at him, and the boy grinned back.

“Are you doing tricks?” the boy asked sweetly, his eyes very wide.

“Only for believers,” Serrure told him conspiratorially. “Are you a believer?”

“My dad says magic tricks aren’t real.”

“Your dad has never seen my magic tricks, then,” Serrure said. He put the Joker on top of his deck of cards, tapped the deck once, and lifted the top card again for the other to see. The boy gasped, smiling. Slowly, his little tourist group gathered around him, and he turned back to his mother beseechingly.

“Can we watch for just a little while?” he asked his family. His mother sighed and glanced at her watch, and the man who Serrure assumed to be his father even crossed his arms, but then a girl from their little group stepped up and hoisted the boy into her arms, resting him on her hip.

“Taking a break from holiday shopping?” Serrure asked the group, as charmingly as he could. “There is a cafe around the corner that makes the most delicious macarons you have ever tasted. You should go there, rest your feet. Tell them Serrure sent you.” As he spoke, his hands never stopped moving - shuffling, cutting, bridging. “I should say,” he continued with a wink, “that I do not work for this cafe, but I would not say no to a free pastry, you know?”

The girl chuckled, and the mother’s eyes crinkled in their corners. Slowly, a crowd began to gather around them all.

He showed them trick after trick, words trickling from his lips as sweet as honey, and even collected some change from generous onlookers in a hat that he sent around. Tourists were good-natured people, he had long-since discovered. Easy pickings.

Meanwhile, Oli picked their pockets. He never took _too_ much. He had a philosophy, he explained to Serrure once. He didn’t like for his donors - and, yes, he referred to his victims as his donors - to feel like they were unsafe in the streets of Paris, lest they never return. It was a twisted sort of philosophy; they were still stealing, but they justified it so that they wouldn’t feel quite so poorly about themselves. Serrure was just finishing his last trick, Oli was just slipping a wallet back into its rightful pocket, when he saw a flash of red in the crowd.

His breath froze in front of him, and the voices of the crowd around him seemed to blur into nothing. There was that flash of red again, further, this time, fluttering. He slapped his cards together into one hand and slipped them into his back pocket, scanning the people milling about. The crowd might have gasped when he took off, might have wondered if this was part of the act, but Serrure didn’t care, ignored the shout Oli threw his way. He pushed his way through the slow-moving pedestrians, elbowed and shouldered them to the side to catch that glimpse of red again.

Whoever it was, he was moving quickly, and always just out of reach, or darting around a corner. It was cloth, definitely, and not part of a shirt. He imagined Thor walking the streets of Paris in full armor, and nearly laughed. It couldn’t be. For one, Thor wasn’t aware that he - that the Loki he had reborn - was missing. Still, he thought on the majesty of Thor’s cape, and pushed down the uncomfortable feeling welling up inside of him. Serrure pressed on.

He pressed on until the crowd began to thin, and he reached forward with a cold hand, and grabbed the red --

\--handkerchief?

It was a red handkerchief dangling from the back pocket of a man’s jeans. “Hey! What the --” the man was saying. He turned suddenly, a huge silhouette against the weak sun, and wrapped a meaty hand around Serrure’s wrist. He winced at the grip.

In his chase he had wandered into a more industrial area of the city, where the tourists were few and onlookers fewer. The man was wearing work boots and a sweater and there were grease stains that Serrure could feel on the cloth that he was still holding. “You trying to steal from me, kid?” he growled, crunching the bones of the thief’s wrist in one hand. Serrure cried out in pain and dropped the handkerchief. It fluttered to the dirty snow.

“Ah! No! I was mistaken - I’m sorry!” he pleaded, tears springing into his eyes, trying in vain to pull away. “I thought you were someone else!”

“So you’re trying to steal from someone _else_ , then!” he said, not the least bit sympathetic, and Serrure thought it was impossible but he squeezed his arm even harder. He gritted his teeth and screamed through them, feeling weak at the knees. With his other hand he made a fist and hit any soft spot he could reach, but it was like hitting a padded wall. “It’s dirty punks like you that need to be put in place,” he continued, and now Serrure could smell the alcohol on him. He had made a mistake. “I should really just --”

“Hey!” A voice rang out and echoed between the tall buildings, feminine and young. “Hey, let him go!”

He didn’t let him go, but his grip loosened a fraction as they both looked for the source of the voice. There was a girl about a block away, the features of her face obscured by the distance. “You let him go, or I’m calling the police!” she threatened.

The man laughed. Serrure took this opportunity to rear one foot back and kick him swiftly in the balls. He keened, dropped Serrure’s wrist, and doubled over on himself, wheezing. “You motherfu--”

Serrure brought his knee into the man’s nose, and he fell, stunned but still conscious.

The girl yelled, “This way!” and waved her arm, and Serrure ran to her. When he reached her she grabbed his hand and tugged, and then they were sprinting away, back into the crowds, twisting around corners and through stalls, back past the fruit stand he liked, and then finally into a narrow alley. He leaned over to catch his breath, while she puffed up like a crow and laughed.

It was contagious, her laughter, and soon Serrure was joining in, cheeks flushed and winded.

“Still getting into trouble, I see,” the girl said, accent affected. Serrure looked up, startled by the familiarity of it. She had long dark hair that was mostly hidden by a knit hat, and a thick scarf that was almost certainly made of rabbit fur. Her coat was stylish and mimicked the style of a dress, and her boots looked new.

“Michelle?” Serrure asked, still uncertain.

“At least your brain hasn’t turned,” she mused, twirling her hair between her fingers.

.

Michelle’s family owned the penthouse apartment in a grand building in a quiet part of the city. The appliances were new, the hardwood floors were new, and the furniture was new. “Make yourself comfortable,” she told Serrure and Oli as they stepped through the threshold, only for the both of them to stand awkwardly in the living room as she wandered into the kitchen, shedding her coat and scarf and gloves onto whatever surfaces were available, to put the kettle on. 

“One family _lives_ here,” Oli exclaimed in an exaggerated whisper, gazing at the mini-chandelier that dangled above them. When he sat on the couch, the leather sighed. Serrure didn’t want to tell him that he’d seen grander, that he’d been a prince in Asgardia, that the palace might as well have been made of gold. He went to sit next to him and said lightheartedly, “Maybe they’ll adopt.”

Oli grinned toothily at him just as Michelle came back carrying a tray containing three cups and a kettle where steam was escaping from its spout. There was also a little plate of biscuits, and she set the whole thing down onto the low table in front of the couch. “Why don’t I give you a tour while the tea is steeping?” she asked, not really waiting for them to respond and already moving back to the kitchen with a nonchalant beckoning wave of her hand. They had no choice but to follow.

They saw the kitchen with its pristine white counters and stainless steel. She showed them the wine cabinet that her family kept in the dining room, which was open and airy and looked rarely used. She breezed past the living room where their tea was turning cold and into her parents’ bedroom, where they walked a circle and she showed them an embarrassing picture of her family on a trip in America. They stopped at the end of a hallway between two opposing doors, and she seemed to hesitate before turning to the right, and she showed them her own bedroom quickly, which was decorated in lilac and green and smelled like spring.

“What room is this one?” Serrure asked her when she ushered them out of her bedroom, now facing the door she had chosen not to open.

“Ah,” she said, moving between them to stand protectively in front of the innocuous white door. “This was my brother’s room.”

“What do you mean - _was_ your brother’s room?” Oli asked before Serrure could elbow him in the gut. This did not stop him from actually elbowing him in the gut. “Ow!” Oli glared at his friend, who tilted his head toward Michelle in response.

_You’re dense,_ he mouthed to Oli, who still did not seem to understand, even as the smile slipped from Michelle’s face and her eyes darkened. They exchanged a series of looks, growing quickly from confused to exasperated.

“You know,” she began, intruding on their silent conversation, “He would have liked you guys,” and the door opened a fraction behind her. She turned her back to them and peered into the room, as though searching for a hidden occupant. “My parents keep it clean,” she explained, stepping inside. Oli and Serrure followed hesitantly, Oli finally catching on to the situation and looking somber.

There were posters lining the wall of bands that the boys didn’t recognize, and gray sheets with fitted corners on the bed. It was meticulously clean; Serrure paused beside the dresser and dragged his finger along the smooth top surface. finding not a speck of dust. Silence fell over them all as the boys scanned the room, both imagining how their own rooms might have looked if they had them.

“Where are your parents?” Serrure asked Michelle suddenly, his voice cutting through the silence, and he frowned when she laughed uncomfortably.

“Oh, you know,” she told him. “Traveling. For the holidays. They won’t be back for a few days.”

“They left you here alone?”

“They think I’m staying with a friend.” She shrugged, unbothered. “Listen, since you’re here, I kind of _am_ staying with a friend, right?”

Oli chuckled. “I don’t think it works like that.”

“You know what else doesn’t work?” Michelle drawled, lips curling. “Your hair, and your clothes. When was the last time you two had a proper wash?” She made a face and waved a hand in front of her nose, and Oli squawked indignantly.

“We’re clean! I’ll show you smelly,” and then he chased her out of her brother’s old room, elbows in the air and leading with his armpits. Serrure lingered; he breathed in the stale, dead air and thought of his room in the tower, he thought of that dirty cave he shared with Leah, and he wondered if those places carried his absence like this room carried Michelle’s brother’s.

.


	5. Chapter 5

“Hold _still_ ," Michelle whined, tugging at a clump of his hair to steady him. Serrure sat on a low stool in her gleamingly white bathroom, newspapers covering the surface of the floor, and held still. After he and Oli had cleaned themselves up a bit, Michelle had approached them both wielding a pair of scissors and her father's electric razor and proclaimed, "No friend of mine shall be unkempt!" She then cornered them both back into the bathroom, and managed to give Oli an all-around buzz. He had rubbed his fingers through the lack of hair on his head, frowning, but after Michelle proclaimed that he looked very nice indeed he had not stopped peering at himself in the mirror, making fish-faces and flashing his teeth.

Now it was Serrure's turn, but his hair was proving much more difficult to cut. It was wavy, for one, so that when Michelle tugged on it and snipped, it sprung back shorter than expected. Frustrated, Michelle grumbled, "Can I just crop your hair like Oli's?" 

"No!" Oli protested. "He'll look like an alien."

Serrure attempted to give his friend a smack but was deterred by Michelle's firm grip on the back of his head. They had turned him away from the mirror so that he couldn't see what was happening to him.

“Then we’ll be a set,” Serrure sniped, “since you look even more like an alien than usual.”

“Michelle thinks I look _nice_ , isn’t that right?”

She rolled her eyes at that, and closed her scissors on another handful of hair. “It’s going to be shorter than I planned,” she told Serrure, “but I think it’ll look okay.”

“You remind me of a girl I knew,” Serrure blurted, feeling instantly embarrassed after, like he had used a cheesy pick-up line, but Michelle only grinned and hummed and continued cutting.

She asked, “Was she very special to you?”

A chuckle rose through his chest and to his lips, and he answered truthfully, “Yes. But you are much nicer.”

.

After, Serrure combed his fingers through his short hair, unused to the lightness that now surrounded his head, and examined his skull from all angles next to Oli in the mirror. They made fish-faces together and posed. Oli pretended to be a reporter asking Serrure about his latest role in a film. Michelle disappeared with the scissors and came back with some shirts that fit the boys, and her phone.

She snapped a photo with her phone before they noticed, grinning. At the sound of the click, Oli turned sharply and protested. “Oi! I wasn’t ready for that one!”

“Are you ready for this one?” she asked, and then immediately snapped another without looking at the display on the camera. She laughed, the sound echoing in the bathroom. They took pictures - silly ones and serious ones, happy faces and angry faces, standing like superheroes or like animals. Michelle’s smile was a contagious thing, and pretty soon Serrure and Oli were competing to see who could create the most ridiculous face. It turned out to be neither of them, since as soon as they would settle their features someone would titter and laughter would explode from the three of them in the second after.

It was only when their bellies were aching pleasantly that Michelle turned the camera off and they changed into the shirts she had brought them. She led them back to the kitchen, where they rummaged around the cabinets and in the refrigerator before making some simple cheese sandwiches and munching on grapes and carrot sticks.

The sun was setting and turning everything a dusky rose color, and when Serrure yawned the other two quickly followed.

“Sleep over,” Michelle commanded. “Let’s make up the living room.”

When she turned her back Oli waggled his brows at Serrure, who gave him a grumpy shove in response. “Don’t be a jerk,” he mouthed at his friend. Oli shook in silent laughter.

They ‘made up’ the living room, cushions flung about the floor to create ‘mattresses’ and sheets draped over the couch and those cushions. Michelle seemed to have an endless supply of pillows, and also ice cream. They turned the television on in the living room and arranged themselves around the cushions on the floor, a tub of ice cream in the middle between them, and three spoons.

This was good, Serrure thought. He could live a whole lifetime of days like this. Who needed Asgard, or Thor, or creatures and heroes of legend? He had friends, and a place to sleep, and ice cream at his fingertips.

Good.

He fell asleep before the program they were watching was over, and dreamed.

.

 _You think this is your story?_ the Teller asks him, a soft blue glow in a black cave. _This is not your story._

 _Tell me,_ Serrure asks, begs. _Tell me what’s wrong with me. Tell me what I must do._

 _Your time will come, my little lock boy,_ the Teller coos. _And when it does you must remember, you are not Loki, and Loki is not you. You are an entirely new thing, all on your own._

A new thing? Serrure thinks in his dream. A god without a story, the Teller thinks for him. Its smile is a shiver down Serrure’s back.

.

There wasn’t even a knock to announce their presence, just a sudden screech in the air that, in his startled half-awake state, Serrure belatedly realized was actually Michelle. He opened his eyes and there were four more people in the room in black suits. One of them was a woman. One of them was subduing both of his friends in his burly grip. The other two were grim-faced and still. On stand-by.

Serrure blinked and forced himself into action, crouching and readying himself to sweep the woman’s legs out from under her, but he did so and she moved quickly, and countered. The two men behind her did not move as Serrure fought back, leaping and punching and furious. There were noises, and he realized _he_ was making those noises. “Let my friends go, you scum. You’ll be sorry you ever messed with us!” He growled and kicked, but he was no match for the woman’s larger size and obvious training.

With a skillful maneuver she grabbed a hold of his wrist and twisted his arm behind him in a gesture that subdued more than injured. Serrure continued to struggle, and saw how wide Michelle and Oli’s eyes were in their surprise. Were they surprised at the intruders, or at how he fought?

“Hold still,” the woman said, in English, with an American accent. “We’re not here to hurt you.”

The English stunned Serrure frozen, and the woman was able to turn him around and stand him in front of her. She had a blunt bob of dark hair and fierce, hawkish eyes. Serrure gulped. “Then what are you here for?” he asked in his own accented English, not really expecting an answer.

The woman, however, put her hands on her hips as if she were talking to a petulant school-boy, and said, “I’m Agent Figueroa with a government agency from the United States. We’re here to take you home; or, at least, back to America.”

“What?” Serrure whispered, shocked. Behind him, Michelle and Oli were released, and they now slowly padded up to his sides, watching intently as the woman reached into the breast pocket of her suit and extracted her phone. She pressed a few buttons before turning the screen of the phone to him.

On the screen was a picture from yesterday, one that Michelle had taken while they were all in the bathroom, making silly poses. They looked even sillier on such a small screen. “We were able to locate you when your friend uploaded this picture to her blog.” The woman nodded her head to Michelle, who frowned at the mention of her blog. Michelle muttered something under her breath, but Serrure did not catch it, eyes intent on the phone as the agent pressed a few more buttons before turning the screen toward the children again.

This time, on the screen was a grainy video. It was dark and muted, but it was obviously two people, a boy and a man, on a couch, talking to each other. Serrure gasped. In the video, the boy asked, “Where are you from?” and to Serrure’s ears the English was perfect.

He remembered that night, at Zed’s party, talking to Finn on the couch. He remembered that Finn was from Wichita and that he knew about Broxton, that he missed the Midwest’s food and thought Serrure was a cool if precocious little boy. There was some chatter on the video, some in French and some in English, and then the boy in the video admitted, “Actually, my name is Serrure,” and Finn laughed.

The woman paused the video and slipped the phone back into her breast pocket, her mouth a grim line. Serrure looked first to Oli, then to Michelle, both of whom gave him confused expressions, and then finally back to the woman. “So?”

Agent Figeroa sighed. Serrure wondered how often her job consisted of retrieving erstwhile little boys. “So,” the woman announced. “Tell me, just where did you learn to speak the All-Tongue?”

.

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted [at my tumblr](http://andnowforyaya.tumblr.com/post/35498961672/fic-missing-from-me-1-post-jim-serrure).


End file.
